Best Served Cold

“No? To my eye they seem very much as violent-tempered and mean-spirited as ever. ‘Things aren’t what they used to be’ is the rallying cry of small minds. When men say things used to be better, they invariably mean they were better for them, because they were young, and had all their hopes intact. The world is bound to look a darker place as you slide into the grave.”

“So everything stays the same?” asked the notary, looking sadly up.

“Some men get better, some get worse.” Cosca heaved a weighty sigh. “But on the grand scale, I have observed no significant changes. How many of our heroes have we paid now?”

“That’s all of Squire’s company, of Andiche’s regiment. Well, Andiche’s regiment that was.”

Cosca put a hand over his eyes. “Please, don’t speak of that brave heart. His loss still stabs at me. How many have we paid?”

The notary licked his fingers, flipped over a couple of crackling leaves of his ledger, started counting the entries. “One, two, three-”

“Four hundred and four,” said Friendly.

“And how many persons in the Thousand Swords?”

The notary winced. “Counting all ancillaries, servants and tradesmen?”

“Absolutely.”

“Whores too?”

“Counting them first, they’re the hardest workers in the whole damned brigade!”

The lawyer squinted skywards. “Er…”

“Twelve thousand, eight hundred and nineteen,” said Friendly.

Cosca stared at him. “I’ve heard it said a good sergeant is worth three generals, but you may well be worth three dozen, my friend! Thirteen thousand, though? We’ll be here tomorrow night still!”

“Very likely,” grumbled the notary, flipping over the page. “Crapstane’s company of Andiche’s regiment will be next. Andiche’s regiment… as was… that is.”

“Meh.” Cosca unscrewed the cap of the flask Morveer had thrown at him in Sipani, raised it to his lips, shook it and realised it was empty. He frowned at the battered metal bottle, remembering with some discomfort the poisoner’s sneering assertion that a man never changes. So much discomfort, in fact, that his need for a drink was sharply increased. “A brief interlude, while I obtain a refill. Get Crapstane’s company lined up.” He stood, grimacing as his aching knees crunched into life, then cracked a smile. A large man was walking steadily towards him through the mud, smoke, canvas and confusion of the camp.

“Why, Master Shivers, from the cold and bloody North!” The Northman had evidently given up on fine dressing, wearing a leather jack and rough-spun shirt with sleeves rolled to the elbows. His hair, neat as any Musselian dandy’s when Cosca first laid eyes upon the man, had grown back to an unkempt tangle, heavy jaw fuzzed with a growth between beard and stubble. None of it did anything to disguise the mass of scar covering one side of his face. It would take more than hair to hide that. “My old partner in adventure!” Or murder, as was in fact the case. “You have a twinkle in your eye.” Literally he did, for bright metal in the Northman’s empty socket was catching the noon sun and shining with almost painful brightness. “You look well, my friend, most well!” Though he looked, in fact, a mutilated savage.

“Happy face, happy heart.” The Northman showed a lopsided smile, burned flesh shifting only by the smallest margin.

“Quite so. Have a smile for breakfast, you’ll be shitting joy by lunch. Were you in the battle?”

“That I was.”

“I thought as much. You have never struck me as a man afraid to roll up his sleeves. Bloody, was it?”

“That it was.”

“Some men thrive on blood, though, eh? I daresay you’ve known a few who were that way.”

“That I have.”

“And where is your employer, my infamous pupil, replacement and predecessor, General Murcatto?”

“Behind you,” came a sharp voice.

He spun about. “God’s teeth, woman, but you haven’t lost the knack of creeping up on a man!” He pretended at shock to smother the sentimental welling-up that always accompanied her appearance, and threatened to make his voice crack with emotion. She had a long scratch down one cheek, some bruising on her face, but otherwise looked well. Very well. “My joy to see you alive knows no bounds, of course.” He swept off his hat, feather drooping apologetically, and kneeled in the dirt in front of her. “Say you forgive me my theatrics. You see now I was thinking only of you all along. My fondness for you is undiminished.”

She snorted at that. “Fondness, eh?” More than she could ever know, or he would ever tell her. “So this pantomime was for my benefit? I may swoon with gratitude.”